Mental Synchronization
by HorklumpFondler
Summary: Tormented by his older brothers and neglected by his parents, young Prince Hans of the Southern Isles lives a miserable, lonely existence. But that all changes when he discovers he possesses an astonishing gift which, if used just right, could put him on the throne. (The events of Frozen told from Hans's perspective - with a twist.)
1. Discovery

The first time it happened, Hans was thirteen years old.

He could remember it as though it were yesterday: he'd been in the stable with Sitron at the time. The little colt had been born weak and sickly and stunted, sliding out of its dying mother in a sluice of blood and amniotic fluid, and the stablehands had been ready to put it out of its misery. The youngest prince, however, had stopped them, insisting that he would take care of the newborn horse himself. He had spent hours by Sitron's side, dipping the twisted corner of a rag into a bucket of cow's milk and letting the foal suck on it until he'd had his fill. It had been a slow, tedious task, and there were moments when Hans had feared the colt would not survive. But within a few days, when Sitron was finally able to stand up on his spindly legs and totter around the pasture, Hans had cheered aloud and kissed the little horse's velvety muzzle.

In no time at all, Sitron had graduated from milk to apples and carrots, and it was these that Hans had been feeding him when Magnus and Gunnar burst in. His seniors by five and four years respectively, they were equal parts strong and cruel, and Hans loathed them. In fact, had it not been for their sharp Westergard noses and their thick mops of coppery hair, Hans would have been unable to believe that they were his brothers at all.

"Hey, runt," Gunnar had said, by way of a greeting. His dark eyes were tiny, red-rimmed pinpricks in the flickering light of the torch Magnus was holding, and there was a strong smell of akvavit on his breath: they had obviously been drinking again.

Hans ignored him. He had long ago learned what to do on these occasions: keep his eyes down and his mouth shut. If he didn't show them that they were bothering him, they would leave him alone. Sometimes.

Occasionally.

"You been up that horse's ass again?" Magnus asked, sniggering.

Gunnar snorted. "No, it's the other way around. If he stuck his dick in a horse's ass, the horse wouldn't even feel it. That's why the horse gives it to him." He drew back his leg and delivered a mighty kick to the stool on which Hans was sitting. The younger prince went sprawling onto his back.

The fall hurt, but Hans refused to let the pain show on his face. Instead, he sat up on the ground and stared straight ahead, trying to suppress the tears that were dangerously close to surfacing.

_Why did they do this to him all the time?_ Hans wondered, biting down hard on his lower lip. _What had he ever done to them?_

Magnus stepped closer to Sitron. "Why don't we check?" he said. The horse nickered and pawed the ground at the sight of the torch in Magnus's hand, but he didn't back away, and Hans was proud of him.

Magnus lifted Sitron's tail and inspected his backside. "Hmm…no signs of hanky-panky back here. I guess you were right, Gunnar. He's the bottom and the horse is the top." He laughed: a thick, slurred, nasty sound.

Gunnar stroked his chin, pretending to look as though he was deep in thought. "So you're saying this horse has been messing with our little brother? Without our permission?"

Magnus made tsk-tsk sounds with his tongue. "Nobody messes with our little brother but us," he said. "He's been a bad horse." He waved the torch in front of Sitron's face, and the colt whinnied fearfully.

The fright in Sitron's eyes made Hans finally speak up. "No, he hasn't!" he said, trying to control the quaver in his voice. "Just leave him alone. Leave _us_ alone. Please." He stood up and began to stroke Sitron's muzzle, trying to calm him.

Gunnar shook his head. "Sorry, little brother, but we can't let him get away with this. When a colt acts up, it has to be disciplined. That's the only way to break its spirit." He nodded at Magnus. "Better show him what we do to horses who misbehave."

"Ohhh," said Magnus. "You mean this?" And before Hans could even try to stop him, he leaned over and touched the blazing tip of the torch to the end of Sitron's tail.

Immediately, the dry horsehair went up in flames. Sitron reared back on his hind legs and let out a panicked scream. He tried to bolt, but his bridle was tied to a post, and the force of the tether reaching its length caused him to jerk violently sideways, sending him slamming into Hans and knocking the youngest prince to the ground once again.

Gunnar and Magnus watched Hans fall, then burst into simultaneous peals of ugly laughter. Gunnar was bent double with his hands over his belly and Magnus was leaning up against a wall for support, shoulders shaking, still clutching the torch in one hand.

Hans didn't say anything to them. Instead, he seized a half-full bucket of water from the floor of the stable and threw it over the terrified horse's backside. There was a loud hiss and a cloud of steam, and the fire was extinguished, but Hans could see that Sitron was still in a state of panic; his eyeballs had rolled back in his head and slaver dripped from his open mouth, and his whinnies of pain continued to echo through the stable and into the rapidly darkening night.

Hans tossed the bucket to the ground and threw his arms around Sitron's neck. Hot tears of helpless rage were spilling over his cheeks, but for once, he didn't try to hold them back.

"I hate you!" he screamed at his brothers, who were still doubled over with laughter. "I hate both of you! I wish you would just. die. DIE!" He stomped his foot hard against the dirt floor with each word. He knew he looked and sounded like a silly, impotent child, but he didn't care. Thirteen years' worth of hurt and fear and anger had finally come bubbling to the surface, and now that they were there, there was no holding them back.

Magnus and Gunnar stopped laughing. They looked at each other, and then Gunnar narrowed his eyes at Hans.

"What did you just say?" he asked. His eyes were mean little slits and his voice was low.

Ordinarily, that voice and that expression would have been enough to make Hans run for cover, but not tonight. Not now, after what they had done to Sitron. Instead, he squeezed the horse's neck even harder and glared back at Gunnar and Magnus.

"I said, I wish you would just _die_." He was beginning to feel a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach: there was rage and hatred there, for sure, but there was also something else. Something that was starting to tug and throb within him; something that he had never felt before.

Something new. Something powerful.

Magnus took a step toward Hans. "I burned your goddamn horse's hair, I can burn yours," he snarled, holding the torch dangerously close to the younger prince's temple.

Hans stood his ground. The peculiar sensation was getting more intense: it had started as a squirming, tugging feeling in his gut, and it was beginning to pulse throughout the rest of his body.

"No," he said, and to his surprise, the word came out calmly and evenly. "No, you can't."

Gunnar stepped forward and grabbed the front of Hans's shirt. "We can do whatever the hell we want. Now shut your mouth, you little punk, or we'll shut it for you."

The throbbing feeling was even stronger now. Much stronger. It was surging throughout Hans's entire body, radiating from the pit of his stomach to the very tips of his fingers and toes and building up behind his eyes.

Hans drew himself up to his full height, fixed his gaze on Gunnar, and said, "Let go of me." He wasn't sure what made him do it, but as he spoke, he tried to push all that pulsating, surging energy inside him into his words, into his stare, using it to drive the command into Gunnar's brain: _let go of me. Let go of me let go of me let go of me._

A brief flash of confusion flickered over Gunnar's face. He maintained his grip on Hans's shirt, but for some reason, doing so seemed to be costing him an effort. His expression melted from anger into surprise as his fingers began to loosen, apparently of their own accord.

Hans kept staring at him, kept pushing Gunnar's mind with all the pounding, rushing energy that had now flooded every fiber of his being. _Let go of me. Let go of me. Let go of me. _

Gunnar's hand was shaking now. If he had looked surprised before, he now looked utterly shocked. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out except for a strangled, gurgling sound. And then – to Hans's utter disbelief – _he let go_.

The throbbing stopped, but the energy was still there; Hans could feel it thrumming throughout his body, radiating from every nerve and vessel inside him.

Magnus looked at Gunnar in astonishment. "What are you doing? Hit him!"

Gunnar held his trembling hand in front of him and stared at it. He flexed his fingers, but nothing else happened.

"I – I can't." His chest rose and fell heavily with each breath, and Hans could tell he was terrified.

Good. _Good_.

Magnus snorted. "You're such a pussy sometimes," he said. "Fine. If you won't beat the shit out of him, I'll _burn_ the shit out of him." He grabbed Hans by the wrist and raised the torch again.

The throbbing recommenced as abruptly as it had ceased. Hans reached inside himself and seized a handful of the roiling energy that was pulsing within him again – he wasn't sure how, he just _did_ it – and put it all into his words:

"Don't touch me."

Magnus paused. Hans narrowed his eyes at his brother and _pushed_ him as hard as he could, imagining that he was sending a bolt of that invisible force right into Magnus's brain.

With a yelp of surprise, Magnus dropped Hans's wrist and jumped backwards as though he had been burned.

He yelped. He actually _yelped_.

Hans grinned.

Taking a deep breath, Hans focused on Magnus again and_ pushed_ him with all his might. "Give me that torch," he ordered.

Magnus opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish out of water. His hand shook, and Hans could tell he was fighting the command. Hans reached out with his mind and thrust at Magnus again. "_Now_."

Slowly, jerkily, like a mechanical toy, Magnus handed his youngest brother the torch. His entire body was trembling from head to toe.

Hans took it and held it as far away from Sitron as possible. He fixed his gaze on Gunnar and Magnus and said in a low voice, "Now get out of here. Both of you."

He didn't even have to push them this time. With one fearful backward glance at Hans, both of them turned tail and ran, bumping into each other in their haste to get out the door.

Hans watched them go, then bent down and ground out the torch on the dirt floor of the stable.

A small smile crept over his face.

"I think things are going to be different around here from now on, Sitron," he murmured, and stroked the horse's silky neck. "Very, very different."


	2. The Power Grows

The night he discovered his ability, so great was Hans's excitement that he was unable to sleep. He didn't understand this new power, nor did he know where it came from; all he knew was that he was wild to try it out on anyone and everyone who crossed his path.

And try it out he did. As soon as he awoke the next morning, he ensured that his governess – a bony spinster who regarded everything, including Hans, with a look of sour, pinch-faced disdain – suddenly and inexplicably decided to resign her position. His ancient tutor couldn't hide his look of utter confusion whenever he found himself dismissing Hans early from his lessons. Perhaps best of all was when he forced his brutish ninth brother, Thorfinn - who had so often been the one to hold Hans down while Magnus and Gunnar punched him in the stomach – to strip off his clothes during an important state dinner. The sight of their red-faced mother dragging the half-naked Thorfinn from the dining room by the ear, yanking him past baffled barons and shocked ambassadors while ignoring his frantic protests that he couldn't help it, couldn't control it – was like nothing Hans had ever seen in his life, and he'd had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing.

Ever since the night in the stable with Sitron, Magnus and Gunnar – his chief tormentors – had been petrified of Hans. The same fear overtook Thorfinn following the state dinner, and soon all three of them seemed to figure that the best way to deal with Hans and his terrifying gift was to pretend that he was completely invisible. Whenever Hans entered a room, Magnus, Gunnar and Thorfinn would jump to their feet and make a hasty exit, taking care not to look at their youngest brother lest he decide to make them spend the rest of their lives thinking they were a flock of chickens – or worse. This suited Hans just fine; the expressions of complete terror that crossed their faces whenever he so much as looked at them almost made up for years of torment at their hands.

Almost.

The cruelty and indifference of his brothers had made Hans's childhood a lonely one, and he had spent years longing for someone – anyone - to play with. But now that he had the ability to push others into spending time with him, he found himself harbouring no real desire to do so.

Strangely enough, he also had no wish to become closer to his parents. His mother was a vain, distant woman who loved the idea of having thirteen sons much more than she loved the boys themselves, and as such, Hans had been raised by a series of nannies and governesses. His father was no different; he had always seemed to Hans a stern, cold man who regarded all of his sons (save for Haakon, the eldest, who would succeed him one day) as little more than nuisances.

The remoteness of his parents, coupled with his brothers' malice, had meant that Hans had come to prefer his own company to that of others. He did enjoy taking lessons with his fencing-master, and the knowledgeable young stable-lad who helped care for Sitron could _almost_ be considered a friend; but Hans had long ago decided that solitude was best, and if anything resembling loneliness ever threatened to overtake him, he pushed it out of his mind the way he pushed thoughts into the minds of others.

This was not to say that imposing his thoughts on others was easy. In order to do so, Hans had to summon that pulsing, throbbing energy from deep inside him and concentrate with all his might on pushing it out through his voice and his stare. The amount of effort this required was tremendous, and it often left him with an excruciating headache. On one occasion – a particularly memorable one that involved Hans suggesting to his haughty twelfth brother, Niels, that his pants were full of insects – the headache had been so bad that Hans had vomited, darting behind a curtain to disgorge the contents of his stomach while Niels ran shrieking down the corridor, brushing at invisible bugs and making frenzied attempts to pull off his trousers. The headache had been worth it, however: Niels, with whom Hans shared a bedchamber, was so thoroughly frightened by the incident that he begged the king to let him study abroad, just to put as much distance between himself and his little brother as possible. A mental nudge from Hans was all it took to get their father to agree, and soon Niels had been shipped off to boarding school in Corona, leaving Hans with a spacious chamber all to himself.

Hans was glad that Niels had departed for Corona, because he found that his body was beginning to do strange things, and they were things that made him desirous of as much privacy as he could possibly obtain. He was getting taller, and hairier, and his voice was becoming deeper. To his chagrin, he also noticed one day that a crop of shiny, red pimples had begun to spring up across his forehead.

_Too bad pimples don't have minds_, he thought ruefully, as he inspected them in his looking-glass. _If they did, I could push them and make them go away._

And just as his body was growing, so was his power – and his proficiency in using it. Within a few years, he was able to take control of another person's mind with no more effort than it took to blink an eye. He had started out needing to speak each command or suggestion aloud, but before long, this became unnecessary: he was eventually able to make someone else's will his own with nothing more than a glance and a thought.

To his delight, he also discovered that his ability worked on animals. If he focused his mind on a bird in a treetop, he could call it down from its perch and feed it breadcrumbs from his hand. He could make the stable's notoriously bad-tempered donkey stand still while he brushed it, and one night when a lone wolf attempted to sneak up on the palace's flock of sheep, he was able to convince it to turn away using only the force of his thoughts.

There was one perplexing exception to the effects of his ability, however, and that was Sitron. No matter how hard Hans tried, no matter how much he concentrated, he couldn't work his power on the horse he had raised since foalhood. He would look into Sitron's large brown eyes and attempt with all his might to transmit his will to him, but it never worked; the horse would simply gaze back, unsure of why his master was staring at him instead of feeding him a handful of oats or rubbing his flank with the currycomb. It bothered Hans to see Sitron so confused, and in time, Hans gave up on trying to push him and resigned himself to training the horse the old-fashioned way: with skill, patience, and a great deal of effort. Strangely enough, Hans didn't mind this at all: their dressage and jumping sessions brought them closer together, and having to work for something was an oddly refreshing change for Hans, who had quickly become accustomed to being able to rearrange the world to suit his own preferences.

Even though he was unable to use it on Sitron, however, his power had been a gift unlike anything he had ever dreamed of. It had granted him freedom from sour old governesses and boring tutors; it had given him the ability to charm the very birds down from the trees; and it had freed him, at long last, from the torments of his brothers. Yet one thing bothered him: where did his power come from? Was he the only person in the world who possessed it, or were there others like him?

He had searched in vain for answers to these questions. After dressing himself in rough, cheap clothing and dirtying his face to hide his royal identity, he had visited a number of so-called soothsayers and magicians who plied their clandestine trade in the back alleys of the Southern Isles' capital city. He had asked them if they knew – hypothetically, of course – how someone might come to obtain the power of sovereignty over others' minds, but not one of them had been able to provide him with a satisfactory response. One of them – an ugly, squat little man with a boil over one eye – had even attempted to convince Hans that he himself was capable of granting this power by means of a homemade elixir, a bottle of which he offered to Hans for a mere forty kroner. Hans, who knew a con attempt when he saw one, had declined the offer (and, for good measure, mentally pushed the man into forgetting to claim his twenty-krone consultation fee).

The failure of these attempts to procure knowledge about his ability unsettled Hans. He had spent most of his life in near-isolation, but it was not until he realized that there might be no one else in the world with powers like his that he truly began to feel isolated.

_Why him?_ he wondered. _Why would God – or nature, or fortune - bestow such a great gift upon an unlucky thirteenth child…upon the lowest, least-loved member of a family whose only talent was that of spreading misery?_

These kinds of questions kept Hans awake at night. As he tossed and turned in his bed, he wished that they were simple ones…the sort of questions whose answers could be found in books. But that was ridiculous; there was no such thing as a book on people with inexplicable magical powers.

Or was there?


	3. The Library

The palace librarian, Herre Kjeldsen, had been working for the royal family for as long as Hans could remember. He was a plump, balding man with a kindly face, and he and Hans had developed a kinship of sorts over the years. When Hans wasn't practicing his swordsmanship or working in the training yard with Sitron, he could often be found curled up in a corner of the library, usually with a book the librarian had helped him find.

"Good afternoon, Master Hans," Herre Kjeldsen said with a smile. Although the palace staff were required to refer to all thirteen of the princes as "Your Highness", Hans had given the librarian permission to call him by his given name. Herre Kjeldsen had been reluctant to do so at first, but as his acquaintanceship with Hans developed, he eventually stopped using the royal form of address. He still continued to call the youngest prince "Master Hans", however, as he did not seem quite prepared to dispense with formalities altogether.

Hans nodded. "Hello, Herre Kjeldsen." He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, oddly embarrassed by what he was about to ask. "I was wondering if – if we had any books on…well, magic?"

"Books on what?" Herre Kjeldsen cupped his hand to his ear and leaned in closer.

Hans realized he had mumbled the last word. "On…on magic?" he said, a little louder.

The librarian frowned. "Magic? As in sleight-of-hand tricks? Stage magic?"

"Not – not exactly," Hans said. "More like…sorcery. Or clairvoyance."

Herre Kjeldsen scratched his chin. "The library does contain a very few books which discuss that subject," he said slowly, "but unfortunately, I do not have permission to allow anyone to read them."

Hans was perplexed. "Why not?"

"They are very old, you see, and very valuable. Your father wishes for them to remain undamaged, and as such, he has given me strict instructions to keep them under lock and key, and to ensure that they are not handled." He offered Hans a gentle, apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Master Hans."

Hans looked past Herre Kjeldsen's desk into the far corners of the library, where thousands upon thousands of books sat in neat rows on myriad shelves. The answers to Hans's questions about his mysterious powers could very well be in there, just feet away from where he was standing.

Hans took a deep breath. He hated to do this, as he liked Herre Kjeldsen and had always had a good relationship with him – but his desire to gain an understanding of his abilities had simply become too strong to ignore.

"It's all right, Herre Kjeldsen," he said, giving the librarian a little push with his mind. "You can let me see those books."

Herre Kjeldsen's eyes shifted out of focus and a dreamy look crossed his face – something that often happened to those on whom Hans used his abilities – and he began to rummage in one of the drawers of his desk. He pulled out a large iron key and headed for a small wooden door at the very back of the library, with Hans following a few paces behind. But just before he reached the door, he stopped and turned around.

"I'm not supposed to allow anyone in here," he said, more to himself than to Hans. His brow was furrowed, and he was obviously struggling to understand why he was about to unlock the door.

Hans frowned. Normally, when he gave someone a mental command, they obeyed without hesitation or question. He tried again.

"You can let me in, Herre Kjeldsen," he said, pushing the librarian a little harder this time.

Herre Kjeldsen turned back to the door and inserted the key into the lock – and then, to Hans's great surprise, he paused again.

"No," he murmured, "no…I can't. I don't have permission from the king."

Hans was shocked – and, if truth be told, a little annoyed. He had become accustomed to being obeyed almost instantaneously, and it was frustrating to meet with resistance for the first time in years.

Taking another deep breath, Hans gritted his teeth and _shoved_ at the man's mind. _Let me see those books_, he thought. _Let me see them. Let me see them_. Just as he had done with Magnus and Gunnar on that night so long ago, he gathered the power inside him and imagined that he was driving it right into the librarian's brain.

To Hans's great relief, it finally worked. The librarian's eyes slid out of focus again and he turned the key. The lock clicked and the door swung open. "There you are, Master Hans," Herre Kjeldsen said, a little dozily.

Hans mumbled his thanks and stepped into the tiny room, closing the door behind him. A knot of something unpleasant was beginning to settle in his stomach, and after a moment Hans realized – with a bit of a start – that his annoyance was dissolving into _guilt_.

He shook his head and tried to get rid of the feeling. He hadn't wanted to use his ability on Herre Kjeldsen, whom he had always respected, but he_ had_ to see those books. He had to know if the answers to his questions were in them somewhere.

The little room was dark and dusty, but a narrow window provided enough light for Hans to see by. There were only a few books on the small wooden shelves, most of them bound in cracked leather with peeling, illegible letters on their crumbling spines.

Hans wasn't sure where to start, so he simply selected a volume at random and inched closer to the window to read it. The book he chose had no back cover, and it was so old that its text had been written by hand.

He turned to the first page. The handwriting was faded and difficult to read, but after squinting at it for a moment, Hans was able to decipher the title: A Chronology of the Westergård Kings.

Hans felt a flush of disappointment. He had spent countless hours learning about the history of his ancestors during sessions with his tutor, and it was not a subject that particularly interested him: from what he could gather, most of his forefathers were reprehensible individuals, and his tutor's stories of their conquests in battle and their harsh treatment of the people they ruled reminded Hans uncomfortably of his brothers. There were a few exceptions, of course, but they seemed to be few and far between.

Hans flipped through a few more pages and, finding nothing of interest, was about to close the book when two words caught his eye:

_Thirteenth son_.

His curiosity was piqued. One of the Westergård kings had been a thirteenth son, like Hans? How was that possible, if there were twelve others ahead of him in the line of succession?

He squinted at the page again. Some of the words in the book had faded so much that they had become impossible to read, but he was able to make out most of them:

…_Haakon was the thirteenth Son born to His Majesty Dagfinn Westergård the First of his Name and his Lady Wife Ingrid…convinced his twelve elder Brothers to give up their Claims to the Throne in his Favour…_

He convinced his twelve brothers to give up their claims to the throne?

Hans's heart began to pound. He read on:

…_a just and goodly King…never questioned…never disobeyed…expanded the Territory of these Southern Isles through Negotiation with the Chiefs of the Countries surrounding…known as Haakon the Great…_

Hans had heard of Haakon the Great, who was one of the earliest kings in the Westergård dynasty; in fact, it was he for whom Hans's eldest brother had been named. He knew that it was Haakon the Great who had been responsible for acquiring many of the lands their family now ruled, but he had never paid much attention to _how _they had been acquired. He had assumed that it had been through conquest, which was, after all, how new territory was customarily obtained. Apparently, however, it had been through "negotiation"…and Hans was beginning to get an idea of what "negotiation" might have entailed.

_Convinced his twelve elder Brothers to give up their Claims to the Throne…never questioned….never disobeyed…expanded the Territory of these Southern Isles through Negotiation…_

If Hans's heart had been pounding before, it was now leaping. He knew why Haakon's brothers had given up the throne to him. He knew why no one had ever questioned or disobeyed him, or why the surrounding tribal chiefs had surrendered their lands: because they had no choice. Because he had forced them to.

_He had had it. Haakon the Great had had the power too._

_And he had used it to become_ _king._


	4. To Be a King

Hans swallowed hard. The dust in the little room felt as though it was choking him…or maybe that was just his own excitement.

It wasn't that he had never thought about being king before. He had – many times, as a matter of fact. Although he hated to admit it, the image of himself standing before the altar of the city's great cathedral, bowing slightly as the bishop placed the great Westergård crown on his head, was one that came to him often. And it wasn't the prospect of power that made that image such an appealing one: it was the idea that he could do something _good_ with that power. Instead of oppressing the people, as so many of his ancestors had, he could care for them. He could feed them and house them and educate them, and in doing so, he could make the Southern Isles one of the greatest nations in the world.

And he would be respected for it.

Admired.

Loved.

He looked at the book again. There was little more in it about Haakon the Great – just a few brief paragraphs stating that he had eventually died in his bed at "a very great Age", and that his eldest son had succeeded him.

Those words seemed to leap from the page. If Haakon had died of old age and been succeeded by his son, that meant that he had never been overthrown, either by one of his brothers or by anyone else.

Hans knew, of course, that he could command the king to name him his heir. All he had to do was walk into his father's study and give him a push, and the deed would be done. Why, he could even make the king place his own crown on his head in the great cathedral, while all twelve of his brothers knelt before him.

But he also knew that it would only be a matter of time before one of them – or some of them, or all of them – began to conspire against him. He had seen Magnus and Gunnar and Thorfinn huddled together in the corner of a room, muttering to each other in low voices, and he had a fairly good idea as to what they had been muttering about. Naturally, they all jumped up and scattered like a flock of startled birds as soon as they spotted him, but that didn't reassure Hans to the point where he was able to sleep with his chamber door unlocked.

Thus far, his brothers' fear of his powers had kept them at a comfortable distance. But how long would fear be enough to keep them in line? Would they eventually gain enough courage to make an attempt on his life…to get their freakish little brother out of their way for good? Hans knew them well enough not to put this past them.

And then there was the issue of his elder brothers – the ones who had already married foreign princesses or wealthy duchesses, and the ones who had left home to serve as ambassadors or military officers. How would they respond if their father suddenly announced that he was naming his youngest son the heir to the throne? Even though Hans barely knew them, he could guess that they would not take kindly to being passed over in favour of the unlucky thirteenth son.

There was also the disturbing question of the extent of his abilities. He knew he wasn't able to take control of more than one mind at a time, no matter how hard he tried (and fortunately for him, this was something his brothers _didn't_ know). Not only that, but the incident with Herre Kjeldsen was beginning to bother him. Why had it taken him three tries to get the librarian to obey him? He hadn't had to work so hard to push somebody since his powers first manifested.

Hans shook his head. He would think about that later. Right now, he needed to find out how Haakon the Great had succeeded in keeping his throne.

He read until the sun went down, leafing through all the ancient books in the little room, combing them for any information he could find about Haakon and their shared ability. Even after the light had finally stopped streaming in through the tiny window, he continued to read by the flame of a candle he had requested from Herre Kjeldsen (who, he noticed, still looked a little dazed from their earlier encounter).

To Hans's great disappointment, however, there was nothing in any of the books about powers like his, nor was there much else about Haakon the Great. In fact, the only mildly interesting information about Haakon that Hans could find was that his mother had been born in Arendelle.

Arendelle…Hans had heard of it, of course. It was a small kingdom on the mainland to the north, and a longtime trade partner of the Southern Isles, but despite its size, it had a reputation for being both powerful and prosperous. If he remembered his lessons correctly, it had been ruled by a regent ever since the death of its king and queen in a shipwreck several years ago. The king and queen had left behind two daughters, princesses who were close in age to Hans himself, but no one had seen them in over a decade – and nobody seemed to know why. Yet if memory served, the eldest princess was set to come of age, and that meant that she would soon be crowned queen.

And that meant that there would be a coronation – and that someone from the Southern Isles would be expected to attend.

A plan was beginning to take shape in Hans's mind. What if he were to travel to Arendelle, meet the queen…and marry her?

It would be easy, and it would be perfect. Just a little mental nudge, and she'd fall head-over-heels for him. She'd marry him on the spot. And it's not as though he would be forcing her to marry him against her will, because he'd make sure she was in love with him. She'd be happy, so no harm would be done.

It would be fine. Of course it would.

And he would have the power and wealth of Arendelle on his side when he returned to the Southern Isles to take the throne. To take it for good…and to be a better king than his father or brothers could ever be.

Hans licked his fingers and extinguished the candle in front of him.


	5. Arendelle

After a few days at sea, Hans began to wonder if his plan was quite as perfect as it had initially seemed.

The ambassadorial ship was small and cramped, and heavy winds churned the ocean as easily as a small child stirs a puddle with a stick. Hans had to run from his cabin several times to vomit over the gunwale of the ship, and - not for the first time in his life - he repeatedly cursed his sensitive stomach. He was glad that he had never left the palace to become a naval officer, as some of his brothers had done.

He was also worried about Sitron, who wasn't handling the journey any better than he himself was. He was determined to reassure his frightened horse that he wasn't alone, and so he spent as much time as possible in Sitron's stall below deck, even though the pervasive odour of sweat and horse droppings did little for his already-roiling gut. Near the end of the voyage, the smell became so strong that he actually considered placing Sitron's empty water bucket over his head to block it out, but reconsidered when he realized how utterly mortified he would be if one of the deckhands spotted him. He might be the least important of the Southern Isles' princes, but no one would ever be able to accuse him of being the least dignified.

As the ship heaved and lurched its way north toward Arendelle, Hans leaned against Sitron's warm flank and thought about his plan. It had been simple enough to push his father into naming him the family's representative at the coronation. Arendelle was an important enough trade partner that he had been planning to send Hans's brother Haakon, who was the heir to the throne, but a little mental prod from Hans was all it took to change that. Haakon himself had not questioned his replacement, and Hans suspected that this was because he hadn't particularly wanted to go in the first place. Hans did not know his eldest brother well, but to him Haakon had always seemed a morose, solitary man: the kind of person who would rather spend his time hawking and hunting, or alone in his study, than at social events of any kind. And as for his other brothers who lived in the palace – well, Hans was certain that they were just glad to be rid of him for a few weeks.

"LAND HO!"

A distant voice from above deck startled Hans out of his reverie. Land ho?

_Finally_. Finally, they were about to reach Arendelle, and he would be able to get off of this accursed ship.

He stood up and pressed a quick kiss to Sitron's silky muzzle. "Don't worry," he told the horse, scratching him under the chin the way Sitron adored. "We'll be out of here soon, and then we can go for a nice long ride." With a few brisk swipes, he brushed the straw from his pants and climbed the ladder that led to the upper deck. And as soon as he spotted the ship's steward, he ordered that his bath be prepared and a change of clothes laid out; as much as he loved Sitron, he didn't particularly want to set foot in Arendelle smelling of his stall.

When the ship landed at Arendelle harbour, the storm had ended and the sky was a gorgeous shade of clear, cloudless blue. As Hans led Sitron down the gangplank and onto the stone dock, he had to squint against the fierce brightness of the summer sun. As his eyes adjusted to the light, however, he found it easier to take in the sights of the city around him.

The little kingdom looked as busy and prosperous as Hans had heard it was. Because it was the day of the queen's coronation, the cobbled streets were abuzz with activity. Citizens dressed in their best clothes wandered to and fro, chatting happily as they browsed the many market stalls that had been set up in the town square. The air was heavy with the scent of the flower baskets that hung from the lampposts, and everywhere Hans looked, purple and green banners emblazoned with the eldest princess's profile fluttered in the warm breeze.

After pulling on his silk riding gloves, Hans mounted Sitron and, with a gentle tap of his heels, urged the horse into a walk. There were still a few hours left before the coronation ceremony was set to begin, and he wanted to give Sitron the ride he had promised. Perhaps they would ride out of the city and into the green mountains that loomed over the kingdom – not too far in, of course, as they couldn't be late for the coronation – but just enough to clear the stale air of the ship from their lungs.

As they trotted along the docks, Hans watched as more and more emissary ships sailed into the harbour, each one flying the flag of its home nation. Many of them bore the great dragon-headed prows of the Viking ships of old, and Hans couldn't help smiling to himself – it seemed that his own family was not the only one that liked to remind the world of its descent from the great warriors of Scandinavia's past.

A particularly ornate dragon's head caught Hans's eye, and he was watching it glide by when Sitron suddenly slammed into something in front of him. The thing emitted a shriek of surprise, and Hans looked up to see a blur of green fly past him. As he pulled on Sitron's reins to steady him, he caught a glimpse of pale skin and a reddish-blonde head, and to his shock, he realized that the flying thing was a person. A young woman, as a matter of fact.

With a resounding thump, the woman landed on her back in a small rowboat that was jutting over the edge of the dock. The rowboat began to tip. Then Sitron – wonderful, quick-thinking Sitron – put out a hoof to steady it. Hans had to hand it to his horse, who he genuinely believed was more intelligent than most humans.

"Hey!" said the woman indignantly. She sat up in the rowboat, and Hans was able to get a clear view of her for the first time. She was delicate and slender, barely out of her girlhood, and dressed in an expensive-looking green formal gown with a beautifully embroidered skirt. Her strawberry-blonde hair was done up in an elaborate braid, and she had a round, pale, pretty face dotted lightly with freckles. But what Hans noticed most about her were her eyes: great, wide-set ones that perfectly matched the colour of the summer sky.

"I'm so sorry!" Hans said, flustered. _God, he had never seen such eyes_. "Are - are you hurt?" Quickly, he dismounted Sitron and stepped into the boat, offering the young woman his hand.

"Hey – uh, yeah. No, no, I'm – I'm OK," she said, plucking a piece of seaweed off of her head and tossing it into the water.

"Are you sure?" Hans asked. He looked her up and down to make sure she didn't seem injured, lingering on her small, pert nose. Her rosy mouth. Her perfect white teeth.

She accepted his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "Yes, I - I just wasn't - just wasn't looking where I was going. But I'm…great, actually." Her vast blue eyes swept over him, and then she looked him right in the eye and smiled.

_Wow._

"Oh, thank goodness," he said. _Thank goodness you're not hurt. Thank goodness you're looking at me._

_Please don't stop looking at me._

He would have kept staring at her, but his endless years of etiquette training finally kicked in, and he realized that he had forgotten to introduce himself.

"Oh…uh, Prince Hans. Of the Southern Isles," he said, offering her a short bow.

She smiled and returned the bow with a dainty curtsy. "Princess Anna of Arendelle," she said.

This was her? This was the princess? No wonder no one had seen her in fifteen years…if the king and queen had made it known that their daughter was this beautiful, their harbour would have been thick with ships, each one carrying a suitor vying for her hand.

"Princess?" Hans was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "My lady!" Even though protocol demanded that he give her nothing but a formal kiss – a light touch of his lips to the back of her hand – he found himself dropping to one knee.

Too much. Too much.

_Idiot._

And that was when Sitron – Sitron, whose intelligence and perfect timing he had just been mentally praising – decided to do the same.

It was a trick Hans had taught his horse just for fun - to bow when he bowed, that is. It amused Hans, and Sitron always enjoyed the carrot or lump of sugar he received as a reward. But now Hans wished that he'd never taught Sitron to do it, because the horse's hoof was the only thing that was keeping the rowboat steady,

_Stop_! he mentally ordered Sitron, briefly forgetting that his horse was the only creature on whom his powers didn't work. Of course, Sitron didn't respond – and that was when the boat began to tip over.

Hans lost his balance and went flying. He crashed into the princess. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!"

The young woman fell over as well, landing on her back in the rowboat again – with Hans on top of her. "Whoo!" she exclaimed, right into Hans's face, and he could smell her breath as she exhaled. _Chocolate_, he thought. _The richest, sweetest chocolate_.

Hans could feel his face reddening. He cleared his throat. "Um," he said.

"_Um"? "Um"?_

_Very smooth, Prince Articulate._

He started to sit up, and that was when Sitron finally seemed to notice that his master was in a bit of a spot. The horse stood up, planting his hoof into the rowboat once more and tipping it upward, which caused Hans to fall flat on his back – and the princess to fall onto him.

He swallowed hard, certain that his face was as red as a beet by now. "Oh – boy," he stuttered, mortified.

_Damn it, Sitron._

Fortunately, however, the young woman seemed just as flustered as he was. "This is awkward," she stammered. "Not - you're awkward, it's just that we're - I'm awkward. You're gorgeous. Wait, what?

She sat up, looking embarrassed, but Hans barely noticed. Only two words had registered in his mind: _You're gorgeous_.

_Dear God, she thought he was attractive._

Trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, he brushed off the front of his jacket, then held out his hand and helped the princess climb out of the rowboat.

"I'd like to formally apologize for hitting the Princess of Arendelle with my horse…and for every moment after," he said.

_Yes! Finally! A complete, coherent sentence!_

The young woman's eyes widened. "No, no, no, it's fine!" she exclaimed. "I'm not that princess. I mean, if you'd hit my sister Elsa, it would be like, yeesh!"

Hans was taken aback. So she wasn't the oldest princess? That meant she could only be the younger of the two – the one who wasn't about to be crowned that day. What had she said her name was…Annette? Annika? Anna?

Anna. Princess Anna.

The princess turned to Sitron. "Hello," she said, and then – to Hans's amazement - she scratched him under the chin. In exactly the same place Hans always scratched him.

_How did she know?_

The horse's lips pulled back, and Hans knew him well enough to know that he was grinning.

He shot Sitron a look. The horse gazed back at him, his brown eyes large and innocent.

_You don't have to enjoy this so much, Sitron._

The princess continued talking. "But lucky for you, it's just me," she said. She shrugged a little, and offered Hans a smile that was almost apologetic.

_She knows_, he thought. _She knows what it's like to be overlooked. To be nothing but the spare._

A lump began to form in his throat. He realized that for the first time in his life, he was talking to someone who might understand him.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. _Get a grip, Hans_, he thought. _She's not the one you came here for. No matter how pretty she is, no matter how much you think she understands you…she's not the right princess. She's not the one who'll help you get your throne._

He had to say something, but he wasn't quite sure what to say. His mouth felt as though it was stuffed full of cotton.

There was a brief silence, and then, for some inexplicable reason, he said exactly what he was thinking:

"_Just_ you?"

Damn it. DAMN it. He didn't want to talk about this – to talk about what it was like to feel as though you were less important than someone else – but he couldn't stop himself. It was almost as though someone had taken control of _his_ mind.

The princess opened her mouth to respond, but just then, a distant peal of church bells split the air.

She gasped. "The bells…the coronation! I – I'd better go. I have to go. I'd better go!" She backed up a few steps and bumped into a small metal post.

_Don't go_, Hans thought. He didn't command it – he just thought it. _Please don't go_.

"Uh – bye!" she said, and with a brief wave, she was gone. Her embroidered skirt fluttered behind her as she dashed off in the direction of the palace.

_Come back_, Hans wanted to tell her – but with his voice, not his mind. _Come back and talk with me._ But it was too late – she was too far away to hear him.

He watched her go, the summer breeze gently stirring the dark green ribbon that hung from her plaited hair. Even though her back was turned and she couldn't see him, he lifted a hand to wave to her.

And that was when Sitron decided to imitate him again.

The horse raised the hoof that had been keeping the rowboat steady. With nothing to anchor it, the little craft tipped over and sent Hans flying into the harbour with a mighty splash. He sputtered and wiped the salty water out of his eyes. His hair and his clean clothes were drenched, but for some reason, he didn't care.

What a horse.

Underneath the overturned rowboat, he grinned to himself.

_What a girl_.


	6. The Coronation

All throughout the coronation ceremony, Hans was determined not to think about Princess Anna.

He reminded himself that he hadn't come to Arendelle to develop an adolescent crush; he had come to take a throne. And so he forced himself to focus on anything but the princess.

He closed his eyes and listened to the choir, which was singing an eerily beautiful hymn in what might have been Old Norse. He glanced at the elderly man who had fallen asleep next to him and was now snoring gently with his head on Hans's shoulder. And most of all, he tried to focus on Queen Elsa – who was, he reminded himself, the one he had come to Arendelle to marry.

The queen was breathtaking. There was no doubt in Hans's mind about this. She had the same slender build and round, lovely face as her sister, and her eyes were just as blue, but the similarities between them ended there. Where Princess Anna's hair was a bright shade of strawberry blonde, Queen Elsa's was so pale that it looked almost white. Her way of moving was stiffer and more contained than Anna's, and Hans couldn't help but notice the worry that was etched in every line of the queen's face. In fact, as she removed her gloves to take the royal scepter and _globus cruciger_ from the velvet pillow in the bishop's hands, she looked positively terrified. Hans wondered why – wasn't she glad to be crowned queen? To be ruler of an entire kingdom…to have a chance to make life better for thousands and thousands of people?

But even as that question drifted through his mind, he couldn't help sneaking a glance at Princess Anna, who was standing at her sister's right side. She was still dressed in the green silk gown she had been wearing when Hans had run into her down by the docks, and she was gazing at Queen Elsa with a look that was clearly full of adoration.

_She idolizes her_, Hans thought. _How proud she must be to see her becoming queen._

The princess looked up and spotted Hans staring at her. Recognition flashed in her eyes, and Hans – in spite of his determination not to think about her, not to acknowledge her - instinctively raised his hand and offered her a little wave.

_Damn it._

But Princess Anna grinned and waved back, and Hans saw from her expression that she was happy to see him. His heart gave a little flutter, and he chastised himself for feeling excitement. _Forget her, Hans, _he told himself. _You're not here for her. You're here for her sister…and her sister's throne._

"QUEEN ELSA OF ARENDELLE!"

The bishop's voice broke through Hans's thoughts, causing him to jump slightly in his seat. He tore his eyes away from Princess Anna and forced himself to look at the queen once again.

"Queen Elsa of Arendelle!" he echoed along with the crowd, applauding lightly.

The sound of the audience's clapping startled the man next to him, who jerked awake and lifted his head off of Hans's shoulder. Hans looked down at the drool stain the man had left on his epaulette and, with a slight grimace, hoped it would fade before the start of the coronation ball.

The ball was very similar to the ones Hans's parents often held back home in the Southern Isles, except for one major difference: everyone at this ball genuinely seemed to be having fun. Hans wasn't entirely sure as to why, but he believed that the absence of his father's stern, condemnatory glare and the high, false laughter of his mother had a lot to do with it.

He had stationed himself in a corner of the ballroom with a flute of champagne in his hand, trying his best to look inconspicuous as he observed Queen Elsa.

The queen was standing at the front of the room with her sister at her side, nodding graciously and making polite conversation with the guests who approached her in an apparently endless stream. She seemed slightly more at ease than she had been during the coronation ceremony, but her posture was stiff and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and Hans couldn't help but notice how much her reserved demeanour contrasted with that of the smiling, effusive Princess Anna.

Hans watched as one of the dignitaries – a small, slight man with graying hair and a pair of pince-nez on the end of his nose – whisked the princess away from her sister and proceeded to engage her in a lively two-step. When he bent her over into a ridiculously low dip, an expression of pure, open-mouthed alarm crossed her face, and Hans grinned at the sight. She was so_ cute_ when she was surprised.

_No. NO._ He forced himself to look away. _Stop it. Don't think about her. Think about the queen._

Queen Elsa was still standing in the same spot, surrounded by a cluster of well-wishers, and it didn't look as though she had any intention of going anyplace else – and that wasn't exactly favourable to Hans's plan. He saw that if he wanted to speak with her, he would have to get her alone. Then he could propose to her – and use his power to ensure that she accepted.

A lump of guilt congealed in his stomach, but he closed his eyes and suppressed it. _Everything will be fine,_ he told himself. _She'll think she's in love with you, and she'll be happy. She gets a husband, you get the power of Arendelle on your side, and your brothers DON'T get the Southern Isles. See? Perfection itself. So do it, and do it now._

Well, there really was no time like the present. Best to just get it over with.

Hans took a deep breath and focused on the queen, summoning his power as he did so. _Come here_, he commanded her silently. _Come here._

He felt the power leave him, felt it travel toward its intended target as it always did – but then, just as it was about to reach Queen Elsa, it seemed to hit something invisible – and hard.

Like an india-rubber ball hitting a wall, the invisible hardness sent his power ricocheting back at him. It slammed into his head with the force of a bolt of lightning, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Oof!" he grunted. His hand tightened around the glass he was holding, and a small amount of champagne slopped over the rim and landed on the floor with a soft splattering sound. A passing dignitary spotted him and flashed him an odd look.

_What the hell just happened_? he thought, clutching his reeling head. In all the years since his ability had first manifested, he had never experienced a sensation such as that. It was almost as though there was some sort of barrier surrounding the queen that was preventing his command from getting through to her.

He tried again, pushing even harder. _Come here. Come here. Come here._

This time, the rebounding force of his power was so strong that it made him stagger backward. But it didn't feel quite the same as it had the first time; instead, it felt less like a bolt of lightning hitting him and more like…well, like an icy wind. Like a wind so strong and cold that it could blow right through his skin and into his brain itself.

He couldn't understand it. It was as though the unseen wall between himself and the queen had actually _frozen_ his power upon contact.

And if his power was frozen, so was his plan.


	7. Dances, Sock Slides and Krumkakes

A shiver of fear went up Hans's spine. What was happening to him? The incident with Herre Kjeldsen and the one with Queen Elsa added up to two recent occasions on which he had had trouble with his powers. Was he losing his ability?

He spotted a waiter carrying a large platter of sandwiches toward the buffet table, balancing it delicately on the fingers of one white-gloved hand. With another deep breath, he gathered his power and sent it in the waiter's direction. _Bring me one of those sandwiches_, he ordered.

Instantly the waiter stopped in his tracks, pivoted on one foot, and crossed the ballroom until he was standing directly in front of Hans. He held out the platter. "Would you care for a sandwich, Your Highness?" he asked, rather dozily.

Hans saw the familiar glazed look in the waiter's eyes and breathed an internal sigh of relief. His abilities were still working, at least on this man. He took one of the sandwiches from the platter and dismissed the waiter with a nod.

As he ate, however, he realized that being able to command a waiter mattered little if he couldn't command Queen Elsa. How on earth was he supposed to get her to marry him if his powers had no effect on her? One look at her was enough to tell him she was the reserved, cautious type, which meant that simply getting down on one knee and proposing to her was out of the question.

What was more, his previous attempt to command her had apparently resulted in his own ability backfiring on him. His left temple felt as though someone had driven an icicle through it – an icicle which had begun to melt and chill his entire brain. It reminded of the time he had eaten too much lemon sorbet as a child and developed a terrible headache as a result.

On the opposite side of the ballroom was a pair of French doors which led to an outside balcony. Perhaps some fresh air would help to ease his rapidly growing headache. He popped the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of champagne, then headed for the doors.

As he crossed the room, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. One of the dancers on the ballroom floor - a heavyset man in a dark blue uniform – was bending over, and as he did, he bumped into a small, slight woman in a green gown. She let out an _oh!_ of alarm, and Hans recognized her voice.

Princess Anna.

She lost her balance and pitched backward. If someone didn't catch her quickly, she would end up on the floor.

Well, it wouldn't be gentlemanly of him to let a lady fall, would it?

With one great stretch, he reached out and caught the princess's hand, pulling her upright. She gasped, surprised.

"Glad I caught you," he told her. He knew he was grinning a little foolishly, but he didn't care.

Her shocked expression vanished and a broad smile split her face. "Hans!" she exclaimed, and he could hear the delight in her voice.

His heart leapt. She remembered his name! And what was more, she was happy to see him!

_Calm down, Prince Excitable_, he told himself. _She's probably just glad you saved her from falling on her rear end in front of all these people_.

But the princess was looking directly into his eyes, and Hans thought – no, he KNEW – he saw something more than gratitude there.

She liked him. He was sure of it. Hadn't she waved at him during the coronation ceremony? And – or had that just been a wonderful dream – hadn't she told him down by the docks that he was…well, gorgeous?

Summoning all of his courage, he made her a short bow and offered her his other hand. "Princess Anna," he asked, "would you care to dance with me?"

They whirled around the ballroom for what seemed like hours: he with one hand on the small of her back, and she with one hand on his shoulder. The princess danced with effortless grace, and Hans – if he did say so himself – wasn't such a bad dancer either. Years of swordsmanship lessons had made him quick and light on his feet.

A particularly lively number came to an end, and the band announced that they would be taking a short break.

Disappointment settled over Hans like a veil. He didn't want to stop dancing, because that meant he would have to let Princess Anna go.

_You can make them keep playing_, he reminded himself. _Just give the bandleader a little push. They can rest later. In, say, an hour or so._

He was about to summon his power when Princess Anna stood up on her tiptoes and whispered something into his ear.

"It's hot in here. Do you want to go outside with me?"

Her sweet, warm breath made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle with pleasure, but he maintained his composure.

"I'd love to," he whispered back. "But what if someone sees us?" They would both be disgraced if they were caught outside without a chaperone.

"I know a back way out," she said. "Come with me." And seizing his hand, she pulled him toward another set of doors at the rear of the ballroom.

"Are we almost there?"

"Shhhh! Keep your voice down…there are guards on patrol!"

The corridor that led out of the ballroom was long and dark, and its lush rose-coloured carpeting helped to muffle Hans and Anna's footsteps as they tiptoed away from the party. All along the walls, flickering candles in cut-glass sconces illuminated portraits of Anna's royal ancestors and of the Norse gods of old.

Hans paused briefly before a painting of a roguish-looking man with flame-coloured hair and a sharply pointed nose. "Who's this?" he asked.

"That's Loki. You know, the ancient trickster god," Anna told him.

Hans studied the painting for a moment. "He's kind of creepy. Look at that smirk – you can tell he's up to no good."

Anna cocked her head to one side. "You think he's creepy? I've always found him kind of handsome. In fact – " she squinted at the portrait – "he looks a little bit like you."

Hans gasped in mock horror. "Take that back!" he told her, giving her a friendly punch in the arm. He tried to maintain an expression of feigned shock, but inside, his heart was leaping. _She said it again! She thinks I'm handsome! Well, she thinks Loki is handsome, but she says I look like him, and that's good enough!_

Anna laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oops. I should follow my own advice about keeping quiet."

They continued down the hallway, trying to move as noiselessly as possible, until Anna stopped before a set of double doors. "In here," she said, grabbing Hans by the hand.

She pushed the doors open. Hans saw that they led to a large, empty room with a gleaming hardwood floor.

"This is one of my favourite rooms in the whole palace," Anna told him. "When I was a kid, I used to take off my shoes and see how far I could slide in just my socks."

Hans laughed. "I used to do that when I was little, too," he said. "I must have spent hours and hours trying to beat my own sliding distance."

Anna looked up at him, and a mischievous smile crept over her face. "I bet you couldn't slide as far as I could," she said.

"Bet I could. Farther, even."

"Oh, yeah? Prove it," Anna said, and kicked off first one shoe, then the other.

Hans felt his eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious." The princess crossed her arms over her chest and stared defiantly back at him.

Hans was not one to ignore a challenge. He bent down and pulled off both of his black leather formal boots. "Watch this," he said. He took a deep breath, crouched down, and ran a short distance down the length of the room. When he thought he had gathered enough momentum, he jerked to a stop and let himself slide a good three feet along the polished floor. He turned back to Anna and bowed.

The princess rolled her eyes and made a dismissive noise. "Pfffttt…that's pathetic. Let a professional show you how it's done." Like a bull preparing to charge, she pawed the ground with one stockinged foot, then broke into a run. But when she tried to stop herself, she lost her footing on the slippery floor and fell on her bottom with a whoop of surprise.

Hans ran over to help her up. "Are you OK?" he asked, offering her a hand.

She let him pull her to her feet. "I think so," she said. "Nothing is bruised except my – dignity." Red-faced, she winced and rubbed her backside with her free hand.

Hans grinned at her. "Some professional."

Anna opened her mouth to retort, but just then, the doors they had entered through began to creak open. "What's going on in here?" called a male voice from outside in the hall.

"Oh, no – it's one of the guards! Quick – in here!" Anna seized Hans's wrist and pulled him toward another set of doors at the opposite end of the room. Hans allowed himself to be yanked along, but as they ran through the doors and rounded the corner, he reached out and found the guard's mind. _You didn't hear anything,_ he told the man, giving him a mental push. _Go back to patrolling._

There was a pause, and then the doors where the guard had been standing clicked shut again. Hans breathed an internal sigh of relief.

Anna cocked her ear and listened as the sound of the guard's footsteps faded away. "That was close!" she said. "We'd better go outside before he comes back."

"I'll go get our shoes." Hans ran back into the room, grabbed his boots and Anna's shoes, and darted out into the corridor where the princess was waiting for him.

Once they had pulled their footwear back on, Anna led Hans down the hall and out onto a spacious balcony. A light evening breeze stirred the wisteria flowers that hung from the palace roof above them, carrying with it their sweet, heady scent.

Anna straddled the balcony railing and sat down on it as though she were astride a horse. "Ohhhh…it feels so good to be outside," she said, leaning back against an ivy-covered post.

Hans swung one leg over the railing and seated himself across from her. "Ballrooms do get stuffy after a while," he agreed.

"I love parties, though," Anna said. Then she frowned. "Well, I love _this_ party, anyway. We've never really had any others."

Hans raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Never?"

"At least not as far back as I can remember." Anna looked downcast for a moment, but brightened almost immediately. "Oooh, I almost forgot! Do you want a snack?"

"A snack?"

"Yes. I thought we might get hungry, so I brought some food with me." She reached down and rolled up one of the lace-trimmed cuffs of her bloomers. Nestled against her leg were two cone-shaped pastries. "Look! Krumkakes!"

Hans was astonished. "You smuggled krumkakes out of the ballroom? In your – undergarments?"

"Yes. Now do you want one or not?"

Hans grinned. _Krumkakes. In her underpants. What a girl_, he thought to himself. He accepted the slightly broken pastry that Anna was holding out to him and took a bite.

Anna shook her head. "No, no, you're supposed to put it all in your mouth at once!" she told him.

"The whole thing?"

"The whole thing!"

Hans did as she asked, but when he bit down on the krumkake, a bit of its cream filling squirted out and landed on his chin, making Anna giggle.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't very dignified," Hans said, feeling his face redden. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his chin.

Anna flashed him an impish look. "Oh, I bet you do things that are even less dignified than that," she said slyly. "I bet you breach protocol all the time."

Hans stuck his nose in the air. "Never. I am the perfect picture of sophisticated grace at all times," he said.

"I don't believe it," Anna teased, her eyes twinkling. "I bet you even…_pick your nose_."

Hans tried to look offended, but he couldn't hold back his smile. "Pick my nose?" he said, feigning affront. "Excuse me, miss. I am a _prince_."

They laughed, and then there was a brief silence.

"Speaking of princes, I heard you're from a huge family," Anna said, breaking it. "You have – how many brothers?"

"_Twelve _older brothers," Hans replied. "Three of them pretended I was invisible. Literally. For two years." He didn't tell her that the reason they had pretended he was invisible was because they were terrified of his mind-control powers.

"That's horrible." The sympathy in Anna's expression was so apparent that it made Hans feel guilty for not telling her the whole truth.

He tried to shrug it off. "It's what brothers do," he told her.

Anna nodded. "And sisters," she agreed. She gazed down at the tiled floor of the balcony. "Elsa and I were really close when we were little. But one day she just – shut me out, and I never knew why."

She looked so sad that Hans wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, but that would have been far too forward. Instead, he gathered both of her hands into his. "I would never shut you out," he said.

There was another silence, and then Hans cleared his throat. "I know we just met," he said hesitantly, "but would you like to…go for a ride with me? I mean, I'm guessing you haven't seen much of your own kingdom since the gates were shut." He shifted slightly on the railing, feeling his face redden_. If she says no, you're going to have to excuse yourself and find a hole to crawl into, and that REALLY wouldn't be dignified._

But Anna looked up at him and nodded enthusiastically, and the joy on her face made his heart swell like a balloon.

Once again, Hans couldn't keep himself from grinning ear to ear. "Let's go get my horse."


End file.
